


The Buddy System

by boonies



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ, EXO (Band), JYJ (Band), SHINee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6517255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boonies/pseuds/boonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unrelated ficlets based on the same cheesy prompt: soulmate au where when you write something on your skin it temporarily shows up on your soulmate’s skin as well</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. jaechun

* * *

 

 

"Mine's dead, right," Jaejoong complains, crowding Junsu on the plane.

 

Junsu bats him away, claustrophobic.

 

"I left her my name my phone number my _address_ ," Jaejoong rants, thumping his chest in anguish as the turbines rev up, "I got a professional artist to tattoo my portrait on my chest and _she's still ignoring me_?"

 

"A tragedy," Junsu agrees with a muffled groan, smushed against an aisle partition, a sympathetic bodyguard carefully peeling Jaejoong off.

 

"Maybe she's married," Jaejoong tells the lavatory sign with a distressed pout, adjusting his sunglasses. He glances down at Junsu. "You think she's married? I'm probably better looking than her husband, she should've waited for me, why didn't she wait. There's no way she's married when I exist."

 

Junsu rubs at one eye socket with a tired blep.

 

*

 

It's not a threat and it's certainly not emotional blackmail, it's just Jaejoong harmlessly writing _meet me at mapo bridge or i will throw myself off it_.

 

He stares at his body in the mirror all morning, waiting for a reply.

 

Around noon, neat steady handwriting uncurls across his left hand:

 

_go ahead_

 

*

 

 

"She was going to let me kill myself," Jaejoong complains, incredulous, gesturing at himself with affront.

 

Yihan inhales deeply, re-shelving Jaejoong's schedule, knuckles white.

 

"Why won't she meet me," Jaejoong whines. "I'm a good catch. The best catch, really."

 

Eyes dead, Yihan shoves the folder too deep, clutching at the shelf for purchase.

 

"I say this as your manager, not your friend," he lectures, drained. "She's probably in love with someone else."

 

Jaejoong pauses, offended.

 

 

*

 

 

_are you in love with someone else_

 

He inspects himself for tattoos all week.

 

On Friday, when he's slouched over at a dark secluded pojangmacha, his forearm blackens with words, a slick unsteady unfolding of lines upon lines of text.

 

"Was dis," he asks Yihan, waving an uncoordinated arm in the air, heart racing, "is this English."

 

Yihan narrows his eyes to read. "...barely."

 

Unsteady, Jaejoong paws for his phone and takes a picture.

 

 

*

 

Sober, he flips through his gallery, scowling.

 

The words are blurry and nonsensical but something deep in his bones seems to be intuitively thirsty for them, responding as though they're his own.

 

"It's her drunken confession," he grins, victorious. "Finally."

 

" _Or_ ," Junsu warns impatiently, in step next to him, bundled up in a fuzzy winter cape. "Or it's lyrics."

 

Jaejoong sniffs, breath misting. "Yeah, I searched but couldn't find this song anywhere—"

 

"Maybe she wrote it," Junsu points out, lips starting to pull back into an irritable snarl.

 

Jaejoong pauses to stare at his reflection in a coffee shop window, humbled, grateful, feeling truly immeasurably loved. "She wrote me a song."

 

"Sure," Junsu waves him off, hastening his steps.

 

Jaejoong jogs to catch up, panting, collarbones pink. "I'll record it for my next album."

 

" _Or_ ," Junsu says, "or you could not do that because that's stealing."

 

"I'll credit her," Jaejoong offers with a slow grin.

 

"—you don't know who this person is—"

 

"Soulmate," Jaejoong reasons innocently.

 

"—YOU'LL GET SUED FOR COPYRIGHT INF—"

 

Jaejoong's grin grows.

 

"Good."

 

*

 

 

It takes two whole weeks after his album hits the charts for Jaejoong's agency to be served with a strongly-worded DMCA notice.

 

"Congratulations," Yihan deadpans, scanning the email, eyes bloodshot. "She finally replied to you."

 

Giddy, Jaejoong frames the email.

 

 

*

 

 

It takes another two weeks for Entity This and Representative That to settle things and unseal court documents and then Jaejoong is standing in a shiny Gangnam police station, nervously waiting for a Detective Park Someone, Song Credit and Soulmate.

 

The glass door slides open with a quiet hiss and instead of a beautiful woman in a hot uniform there's a dude in a dark suit, cranky and real and flashing a badge that says Park Yoochun.

 

"...you're an ahjussi," Jaejoong says, crestfallen.

 

Unamused, Yoochun pockets his badge and points out, "So are you."

 

His voice is deep and nice and his hair looks soft and Jaejoong stupidly falters. "Why didn't you reply to me."

 

"Because," Yoochun grunts, eyes clear, tone offended, "my soulmate can't be an old guy."

 

Instinctively, Jaejoong tries not to reach for the nearest weapon. "Old, _old_ —" compromising, he grabs the nearest pen instead, clicks it with impatience, and scratches at his hand, scandalized, "I'm literally drawing on you right now, it's _definitely_ me—"

 

"No," Yoochun insists stubbornly, scrubbing the tattoo off with distaste, "I refuse."

 

"The universe!!" Jaejoong starts, exasperated, then suddenly pauses. "There's only one way to settle this."

 

Yoochun meets his eyes, equally determined.

 

"Drinking," they say in unison.

 

 

*

 

 

"This never—oh god, this never happened, okay," Yoochun moans in the morning, flushed, embarrassed, covered in bites, collecting his pants off the floor.

 

Satisfied, Jaejoong stretches across the bed, sheets sticking to his body. "I probably filmed parts of it."

 

Yoochun freezes, dropping his pants back to the floor.

 

"This is the part where you tell me that's illegal," Jaejoong allows magnanimously and sits up, smug, "and I tell you it's only illegal if I distribute it."

 

Defeated, Yoochun glances at the ceiling, stares at things unseen for a long sad moment, then walks out the door.

 

 

*

 

 

"This is my soulmate."

 

"STOP saying that word—" Yoochun sharply cuts him off, cheeks dark, brows knitted, ardently fending Jaejoong off, flustered to the point of malfunctioning, "don't introduce—people—I'm _not_ —"

 

"Oh," Junsu tells Yihan, re-energized, "I like this."

 

"Yeah," Yihan agrees with a smirk.

 

*

 

In the middle of a concert, a tiny smudged squiggle flashes across Jaejoong's wrist.

 

"What," Junsu asks between song sets.

 

Fond, Jaejoong wipes at his sweaty bangs, "Yoochunnie says he wants to go drinking later."

 

Baffled, Junsu reexamines the fading tattoo, all two millimeters of it. "What."

 

Jaejoong frowns, because how is it not super obvious. "This dot is the pojangmacha he likes and this one is me, whom he also likes—"

 

"Okay," Junsu nods, uncomfortable, and scoots clear away.

 

 

*

 

"I was in the middle of a stakeout," Yoochun complains, loosening his tie and tossing the shopping bag on the kitchen counter. Annoyed, he exposes the beautifully intricate tattoo below his collarbone. "Stop drawing your damn logo on me whenever you want groceries that start with m, four girls tried to pick me up thinking I was a Moldir salesman—"

 

Eyes narrowed, Jaejoong prowls closer. "How many girls."

 

Yoochun sighs.

 

 

*

 

 

"—no, it's just—" Yoochun whines drunkenly, pouring for Yihan, "it's a mistake, you know—I don't want this. I definitely don't, and as his manager, you should—you should stop this."

 

Very tired, Yihan steadies the neck of the soju bottle. "What seems to be the exact problem, Yoochun-ssi."

 

Yoochun pauses, eyes glassy.

 

"This hyung drinks," Yoochun accuses shamelessly but his arm is very much around Jaejoong's shoulder, "and then he touches me, KISSES me—a man—constantly—just, all over, he's always all over me—"

 

"Are you complaining," Yihan asks, bored, "or bragging."

 

"...complaining..." Yoochun answers, cute, too cute, in a way that makes Jaejoong want to take care of him.

 

"Good," Yihan nods wisely, "because I need him to escort a woman to his next awards show."

 

Yoochun pauses.

 

"No," he growls low, in a way that makes Jaejoong want to be taken care of by Yoochun.

 

 

*

 

 

During the ceremony, when Jaejoong is presenting an award, his right palm fills with a strong bolded underlined perfectly-timed _hey_.

 

The actress accepting the award shoots him a tiny betrayed glance.

 

 

 

*

 

 

"I was writing down a witness statement," Yoochun explains with an innocent shrug, "and my pen slipped?"

 

Yihan clutches his head in despair, a copy of Dispatch lying between the three of them. "Now everyone knows he has someone and I hope you realize I can't do damage control on magically appearing tattoos—"

 

"If it helps," Yoochun deadpans, mildly apologetic, "we're not _really_ together—"

 

Jaejoong crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "We're soulmates."

 

"Yeah but," Yoochun insists with a desperate huff. " _I_ decide who to be with."

 

Jaejoong gives him a long calculating glance then leaves without a word.

 

 

*

 

 

 

"You can't go out like this," Junsu sighs three weeks later.

 

Jaejoong inspects himself in the mirror, covered in lyrics.

 

"Yes," he grins, "I can."

 

 

*

 

 

Another week and there's enough material for seven albums spanning the length of Jaejoong's body.

 

He writes _did your pen slip again_ along the muscle lining his inner wrist.

 

A few minutes later, several small dots appear below the word _again_.

 

 

*

 

 

The pojangmacha is empty save for a dozing ahjussi slumped over in one corner.

 

"Baby oil gets ink out," Yoochun apologizes awkwardly.

 

"Did you bring some," Jaejoong greets back, straddling a stool next to him, a walking human poetry page.

 

"You'd use it for other things," Yoochun mumbles hotly, flush creeping up his neck, "so no."

 

Jaejoong folds his hands in his lap, waiting, anxious, hopeful.

 

"The thing about soulmates," Yoochun starts, sounding pained, "is that it's mutual." His hand slips to Jaejoong's lap, cold. "That you like the other person the way they like you, more than you should, more than is sane." There's a soft click. "What you don't get is that it has to be forever so it can't be you." There's a metallic crunch. "I decided that seven years ago, when you first sent me your name."

 

"...did you just handcuff me to yourself?" Jaejoong blinks, raising his wrist to check.

 

"A little bit, yeah," Yoochun nods, shoulders slumped, chain dangling between them.

 

Baffled and oddly turned on, Jaejoong frowns. "I know it's forever. That's the point. Being together is the point, Yoochun."

 

"I don't think," Yoochun says, quiet, "your forever and mine are the same."

 

Agitated, Jaejoong yanks on the cuffs, tugging Yoochun's wrist into his lap. "I stole your song so you'd be bound to me forever, at least legally."

 

Yoochun meets his eyes, startled. "What."

 

"I have roughly twelve songs I'm stealing right now," Jaejoong smiles, warm, hesitant, confessing more than his crimes, "so yeah. I think your forever and mine are the same."

 

Guarded, Yoochun stares.

 

"I knew more about you after two hours," Jaejoong adds, almost shy, "than I do about all the people I know. Combined. I want to—I want to keep that."

 

Yoochun's features darken attractively.

 

"And I think you'll be happy to know," Jaejoong concludes, achy with affection, "that _I_ brought baby oil."

 

Yoochun pauses, then tries to scurry away in panic, snapped promptly back into place by his own handcuffs.

 

 

*

 

 

Jaejoong wakes up with Yoochun's arms wrapped around his waist like a belt.

 

"You're not human," he stretches, muscles flexing under Yoochun's cheek, bones dissolving with pride, "you're a fashion accessory."

 

Sleepy, Yoochun tightens his hold and moves up Jaejoong's body to latch onto his shoulders like a backpack. "And you're an ahjussi."

 

With a tiny offended huff, Jaejoong shakes him off.

 

Yoochun only returns stronger, more forceful, sticking to Jaejoong like tape, identical ink stains smudging off his skin.

 

"You're an ahjussi," he says into Jaejoong's back, mouthing at the skin, "but you're perfect."

 

Jaejoong freezes, ruined.

 

Slowly, the tension evaporates, turns to gratitude and want, so he tangles his ankles with Yoochun's, fingers searching in the sheets.

 

There's a soft click.

 

"Did you just handcuff us together," Yoochun asks, unsettled, pawing at Jaejoong's shoulder, "hyung, no, I lost the key last night, we'll be stuck, I don't have the key—"

 

Jaejoong's lips curl.

 

"I know."


	2. taekai

  * birthday ficlet for [89ner](https://tmblr.co/mNoSSfx03s2-TN-5hEp51Mw); **disclaimer** : this was written in early March, a month before Dispatch published their article—apologies for any disrespectful content, none is genuinely intended



 

* * *

 

 

 

"Really," Taemin greets the table.

 

"No, okay, listen," Minho defends, curled around Jonghyun's arm with a sharpie, tongue poking out in concentration, "we're just sending hyung's future soulmate the full transcript of Base."

 

Nose scrunched up with distaste, Taemin squints at the messy lyrics spanning the length of Jonghyun's forearm, then casually grabs Jinki's phone, snaps a photo, and updates twitter.

 

The phone promptly lights up with hundreds of _omg it's me i'm oppa's soulmate_ notifications, poorly-copied misspelled sharpie tattoos staining the fans' arms.

 

Taemin gestures at the table with a smug satisfied cock of his head.

 

Unimpressed, Jonghyun narrows his eyes, smile dangerously pleasant. " _Why_."

 

"Hyung," Taemin says idly, slicking his bangs back, "there are seven billion people in the world—"

 

Minho looks up from his art with absentminded interest. "Are you sure. That sounds like a lot."

 

"—so if you think this person can read Korean or be your age or even be _alive_ at the same time as—"

 

"Taeminnie," Jonghyun says kindly, gaze warm, voice soft and menacing. "Let us draw on you."

 

Taemin chucks the sharpie across the room.

 

There's an introspective silent beat.

 

"...it's going to be Jongin for him," Minho decides, chair scraping as he bends to retrieve the sharpie.

 

"Definitely gonna be Jongin," Jinki agrees.

 

"Oh, yeah," Kibum mumbles at his phone, distracted, "for sure Jonginnie."

 

 

*

 

 

"Wanna hear something messed up," Taemin announces, ghosting into Jongin's dorm like a stubborn wraith.

 

"Always," Jongin salutes from the bed, bent weird, phone in front of his nose.

 

Carelessly, Taemin launches himself on the mattress and scowls at the ceiling. "Hyung's trying it."

 

Jongin pauses his game, raising an eyebrow. "I need," he deadpans, "slightly more information than that."

 

"The whole," Taemin waves his wrist, irritated, "soulmate doodle thing."

 

"Oh," Jongin says, brightening. "I was actually—"

 

"Statistically," Taemin starts, frustrated, and turns on his side to watch Jongin's face, "even if a person, for example," he stabs at Jongin's shoulder, " _your_ person exists in the same time as you, she could be ugly—"

 

Jongin's features knit with disapproval. "I wouldn't care."

 

A sharp stab of dread twinges low, so Taemin points out, prickly, "She could be super old."

 

"And."

 

Taemin pauses, uneasy, a relentless kind of distressed panic pooling in his gut. "So you'd just... go with it. No matter what."

 

Modestly, Jongin averts his eyes and shifts on the bed with a sudden pained wince and a tiny achy groan.

 

"Where does it hurt this time," Taemin asks with a concerned scowl, instantly refocusing, fingertips brushing over the curve of Jongin's shoulder.

 

"I'd go with what feels right," Jongin ignores him with a troubled flinch, fingers covering Taemin's. "Wouldn't you."

 

"No," Taemin argues, tired, rubbing soothing circles into Jongin's dumb shoulder, the weight and warmth of Jongin's hand a pacifying presence, "I mean, we're brainwashed to think you can just draw on your skin and it'll appear on theirs and then you're just supposed to put a baby in a seventy-year-old nun—?"

 

There's a pause.

 

Jongin buries his other hand in Taemin's hair with a soft fond, "When will your filter return from war."

 

 

 

*

 

 

Jonghyun ambushes them in the cramped hallway, brandishing sharpies like knives, coaxing, " _Let us_."

 

Jongin smiles at him, unguarded. "Let you what."

 

Taemin crowds behind him, wary. "You're not coming anywhere near me with those."

 

"A tiny one," Minho reasons, pulling the cap off.

 

Unnerved, Taemin hastily rounds Jongin's back, fending the sharpie off. "No, it's—stop it—" he headbutts Jongin's shoulder in self-defense, narrowly avoiding a sharpie shank to the face, "hyung, this is pointless, nothing's ever shown up on me and I'm _famous_ ," he says and it's a lie, because things show up, often and adorably, in safe respectful places no one else can see; tiny nonsensical reminders like _buy dog food_ and _seriously don't forget to buy dog food_ and _hire someone to buy dog food_.

 

"Nothing?" Jongin asks with a tentative side-glance, quick flash of disappointment lacing his voice. "Ever?"

 

"Never," Taemin tells him, curled behind his back.

 

"Okay, Jongin-ah," Jonghyun suggests after a moment, nonplussed, "can we do you instead."

 

Bristling, Taemin shoulders past them, hauling Jongin to safety.

 

 

*

 

 

Around midnight on a rainy Monday, nose buried in unfinished lyrics, Taemin eyes his pen.

 

Then his hand.

 

Experimentally, he presses the tip to his skin, ink beading, and draws a small straight line.

 

 

*

 

He meets Jongin for a snack in the morning.

 

Jongin's hand is unmarked.

 

 

*

 

 

The bathroom is thick with steam, humid and dark, and so when Taemin wipes at the mirror, it takes him a moment to notice the design blooming down his bare abdomen.

 

A line curves in a wide swooping arc below his navel, dips under the towel hung low on his hips, then crisscrosses up his ribcage like a signature, and Taemin thinks no, not now, not ever.

 

 

*

 

 

Between radio shows, Taemin texts _what if she hates dogs_.

 

When manager-hyung returns his phone later, there's only a short voicemail with an amused incredulous, "No one hates dogs."

 

 

*

 

 

"Did you eat," Jongin throws over his shoulder, hustled along by a handler, rushing from one promotion or another, face soft and gentle and worried.

 

"At some point this week," Taemin replies, pushed in the opposite direction by a harrowed manager, late to an interview, "did you sleep."

 

"At some point next week," Jongin grins affectionately, knuckles brushing Taemin's in passing.

 

 

*

 

 

"Stand still."

 

Pulse racing, Taemin sidesteps with frantic speed, cornered in the makeup room, Minho and Jonghyun flanking him on each side, eyeliner aimed at his face like a gun barrel.

 

"Oh look," Minho says woodenly, nodding his chin at the mounted television set above them with questionable acting skills, "Kai's on TV."

 

And because Jongin _is_ on TV, on live broadcast, dancing like a slow burn, Taemin instinctively pauses, careless, and finds his eyes helplessly drawn to the screen.

 

Triumphant, Jonghyun swipes at his cheek with an eyeliner pencil.

 

The scent of kohl registers first.

 

The unpleasant smudge of it is second.

 

And then third, on TV, on live broadcast, where Jongin's eyes are closed and sweat is matting down his bangs and the camera is focusing on his parted lips, there is absolutely nothing.

 

"Oh," Jonghyun says awkwardly, recapping the pencil.

 

"Yeah," Minho agrees but draws another line on Taemin's cheek. "Tic-tac-toe, hyung."

 

Intrigued, Jonghyun shrugs and places an x in the middle.

 

Taemin lets them, apathetic.

 

*

 

 

Between his thumb and forefinger, there's a small fading tattoo of a cartoon dog and a question mark.

 

Taemin scrubs at it with rubbing alcohol for five minutes, furious.

 

 

*

 

 

"Help me do it," Jongin says around a mouthful of fried chicken at four in the morning on a snowy Sunday, fingers greasy, mouth shiny, bangs pinned up.

 

Taemin sniffs at a crispy wing, pajamas a mess, cross-legged on the floor, food wrappers between them. "What."

 

Oddly impatient, Jongin pats himself down and tosses a pen to the sauce bowl between them.

 

Taemin narrows his eyes. "No."

 

Jongin huffs, exasperated. "How do you _not_ wanna know who it is."

 

There's a raw expanding sense of resignation warring with resentment all along Taemin's ribcage, tinged with inappropriate levels of affection and hopelessness, so Taemin bites into the chicken and just gives up.

 

"I don't," he mumbles tiredly, eyeing the pen, "I—someone brands me like cattle and I'm automatically theirs? I'm my own. I'd rather date myself. I'm—it's stupid—"

 

"It's not stupid," Jongin snaps, brows knitting, and wipes his hands on a napkin, practically tearing it to shreds, "it's the person you're meant to _be with_ —"

 

"Okay," Taemin says, sleepy and sad and sincere, the inevitability of it weighing him down. He wipes his hands on Jongin's destroyed napkin and says, "What if it's not you."

 

Jongin pales, knuckles flashing white. "What."

 

Taemin stares him down. "What if it's not you."

 

"Why," Jongin says, hands maybe shaking, "why would it be me."

 

A hot flush of shame blazes through Taemin's body, so overwhelmingly strong it takes him an eternity to realize there's nothing rhetorical about that question.

 

"Because," he says, stupid, emboldened by Jongin's dark cheeks and blown pupils and monogrammed pen between them. "I want it to be you."

 

"It's not going to be me," Jongin breathes out, kind of desperately, sort of brokenly, apologetic and adorable, hands definitely shaking, "I tried, I tried even when I shouldn't have, when you were going live and I just wanted to see—I checked so many times—"

 

The confirmation constricts Taemin's chest because more than the pleasant satisfying lull of _he wants it to be me_ there's a louder whinier _it's not me_.

 

"It doesn't mean it's accurate, right," he tries, unequipped to deal with an unhappy Jongin, "maybe—maybe if neither of us show any signs, it means the system is broken—"

 

"Mine showed up," Jongin admits quietly.

 

So has Taemin's but somehow this hurts more.

 

"So what," he says dismissively and grabs the pen because hopefully Jongin's person can read Korean and if Taemin can be entitled to one thing, if he just writes _property of me_ on all of Jongin, they'll back off, because if Taemin's petty enough, if he fills up Jongin's body with all of his things, the universe will back off, too.

 

Determined, he clicks the pen a little too hard and yanks Jongin's hand closer, gently pressing the tip to Jongin's wrist. He shifts the pen, fretting, and starts.

 

He means to draw something distinctively Lee Taemin™ but settles on a messy scrawl underlining a moderately menacing message—

 

He pauses mid-stroke.

 

"What," Jongin murmurs worriedly, sounding all kinds of defeated.

 

A light pressure travels along Taemin's skin, familiar in its pattern.

 

Terrified, he slowly tugs his pajama sleeve up.

 

There's an ugly scribble on his wrist, mirroring Jongin's.

 

A rush of relief wraps around Taemin and a tiny soft laugh puffs up his cheeks. "Makeup."

 

Looking all sorts of undone, Jongin's eyes widen. "Would that hide—I'm pretty sure I drew on you when you were wearing makeup."

 

"Me, too," Taemin grins, can't stop, validated, "probably every time."

 

Jongin moves his hand until his fingers are laced with Taemin's. "You have horrible timing."

 

"I have horrible timing," Taemin agrees warmly. He tugs their hands up until the scribble is visible, clarifying, "It's a bird."

 

"Yeah," Jongin murmurs, inspecting it.

 

"I'm not," Taemin apologizes awkwardly, "good at drawing birds."

 

Jongin opens his mouth, then wisely closes it. "Yeah."

 

There's a beat before Taemin tries a last flippant, "Definitely didn't think it'd be you."

 

"Sure," Jongin smiles, blindingly bright. "Same." He pauses to paste an overly-contrite pout. "But this kinda officially means you're mine. Sorry."

 

Taemin bites back a satisfied grin. "You're not sorry."

 

Jongin closes the distance with a smug, "I'm not sorry."

 

 

*

 

 

"Told you it'd be him," Minho brags, proffering his palm.

 

Jinki tucks his wallet deeper into a jacket pocket. "...I said the same thing."

 

Kibum balks. "No, I feel like I totally said it first, so pay up."

 

Jonghyun squeezes in between them, draping an arm around the nearest two. "Everyone got that one right, don't fight."

 

"Pretty much," Minho nods over an overlapping chorus of bored yeahs.

 

There's a moment of ominous silence before someone says, "...go grab one of them."

 

 

*

 

Between song sets, Jongin slips out of a costume, catching a glimpse of his back in the mirror.

 

There's a giant note sprawling down his spine.

 

_bring your sunbae in-laws chicken and beer_

 


	3. homin

* * *

 

This is what Changmin has learned today:

 

Even when the universe purports to be of benefit, it's actively trying to fuck him over.

 

"You can't diddle a little kid," Kyu grins and pats Changmin's stiff shoulder, eyes amused and crinkled at the corners and firmly fixed on the atrocity blooming down Changmin's forearm.

 

It's not that the lines are necessarily infantile. It's that the drawing is fucking incomprehensible. It's a flying radish of some sort, Changmin is sure, except that it's so helpfully captioned _saw a rhinoceros today :D_ and so that's that.

 

Changmin's soul is doomed.

 

The universe—to which he's only ever contributed productively—has matched him with some little girl who can't hold a marker and Changmin will be fucking fifty years old before she's legal, so that has to be wrong. The universe would not, just would not send him someone who draws cartoons on acid, and hopefully this child is not dropping acid in preschool but if she is, is that really the kind of soulmate Changmin—

 

"Maybe she has an older sister," he tries, miserable, and rolls his sleeve back down, rummaging through his pocket for a stethoscope.

 

"Yeah," Kyu indulges him and hands over a clipboard, "and maybe you'll die alone like you deserve."

 

Scowling, Changmin glances at the chart. "What's this?"

 

"I'm trading you for that hot volleyball player in room six," Kyu offers, suspiciously eager.

 

Changmin scans the chart again, eyes briefly pausing over _national athlete_ and _soccer-related injury_ and _Gwangju FC_.

 

The same Gwangju FC that crushed Changmin's hometown team last month.

 

"Deal."

 

 

*

 

 

Changmin has a weird fucked up moment of walking into room four only to immediately do a humiliating u-turn and scatter back into the hallway.

 

Because the TV was wrong.

 

The TV only ever showed Number 24's back, that hideous red-striped jersey of his, and the kind of wild shiny hair Changmin grudgingly coveted for a couple out-of-character seconds.

 

"The patient is _in_ the room..." one of the nurses reminds him, so Changmin gets his shit together and strolls back in like the medical professional he is.

 

"Oh," Number 24 greets with a warm startled smile, spread across the examination table like a bountiful breakfast, gown open at the waist, a massive bruise purpling one thick muscled thigh.

 

Changmin's fingers tighten around the chart.

 

"We were playing a friendly at the zoo," Number 24 explains preemptively, long thin fingers rubbing at the bruise with absentminded concern, tone apologetic, "it's nothing. I just need a note saying it's nothing."

 

Changmin's hands have practically leapt across the room to move up a guy's thigh as though they've detached themselves from the rest of his body, an event uncharacteristically troubling in itself, but then there's also the fact that Number 24 is responding with a soft tiny moan—

 

"A note," Changmin manages, awkward as fuck, "I can write that."

 

Except he's forgotten how to write.

 

"It..." Number 24 prompts gently, meeting Changmin's eyes, "...just has to say I'm cleared to play next week."

 

Right, and Changmin would totally write a note that says that exact thing but he finds himself stupidly taking a pen and circling the circumference of the bruise, ink seeping into Number 24's soft sticky skin, which is very definitely not how he's been trained to record medical data.

 

"You're cleared," he says, flustered, because he's going to get fired probably or sued definitely and he's only just won this residency, "I'll fax a report to—wherever," he throws this last bit over his shoulder and essentially cuts and runs, desperate to hunt down a whole bevy of beautiful big-breasted volleyball players.

 

*

 

 

"Hey," Minho yawns at the lockers later, nodding his chin at Changmin's side, "what's that."

 

Changmin glances down, shirt halfway over his head, pants unbuckled and sliding past his knees, lab coat stacked neatly on the bench.

 

Below his hip, there's a massive round tattoo outlining his thigh.

 

 

*

 

 

"At least it's not a child?" Kyu offers, mouth twitching uncontrollably.

 

Changmin chucks a scalpel at his head.

 

 

*

 

 

At dark-o-clock, Changmin boots up his laptop, sitting cross-legged on the bed in his boxers, a blanket over his head, and obsessively scours the internet for info, eyes bloodshot.

 

As though an acid-dropping preschooler wasn't disappointing enough, the alternative the universe has in mind, apparently, is Jung Yunho, team captain, Jung Yunho, who can't fucking draw a rhinoceros, Jung Yunho, who holds the national record for most consecutive injuries in one season, JUNG YUNHO, A FUCKING DUDE.

 

Changmin kicks his laptop off the bed, then curls up in the blanket, indignant.

 

 

 

*

 

 

"Love," he explains to Kyu in the morning, walking to work, pious, clear-headed, over it, "is a meritocracy."

 

Kyu sips at his coffee, ambling by his side, smug. "Sure."

 

"It has to be earned," Changmin continues, enlightened, light-headed, sleep-deprived, "based on the _talents_ the _woman_ I choose possesses."

 

"The universe called you kinda gay though," Kyu points out, mouth back to twitching in ugly delight.

 

Bristling, Changmin shoves him into a pothole.

 

*

 

 

"We have nothing in common," he defends to Minho over lunch. "I researched."

 

"So you're..." Minho says around a mouthful of gross cafeteria mashed potatoes, "...stalking him."

 

"I'm neutralizing a threat," Changmin frowns, incredulous.

 

"Look," Minho says, with more interest in the potatoes than the conversation, "he's probably dating some foreign supermodel anyway. Like a _normal_ soccer player."

 

Changmin lowers his spoon.

 

Well, that's.

 

That's not cool.

 

That's not what the universe wants.

 

*

 

 

Changmin practices on a sheet of paper first.

 

Because he's a perfectionist, not because his hands are shaking.

 

He writes a simple _let's meet_ , handwriting exquisite.

 

He receives a sloppy almost-instant _oh you exist thank god_

 

Changmin is fine. His blood pressure is fine, his pulse is fine, neither of those things is experiencing a wild primal spike, raising his temperature or lowering his IQ.

 

Flushed, he grips the pen tighter but what the hell was he going to write after.

 

A sharp fluid line fades in, spanning the length of his left hand: _i only just found out about these tattoos and i'm so happy you're real there's so much i want to ask you let me pick you up at 7 i promise i'm not some strange person is 7 okay i'm sorry i should've asked not just assumed sorry_

 

Changmin stares.

 

No, he thinks, this just can't be right.

 

 

*

 

 

Because Changmin has researched thoroughly, he knows the dude blocking his way into the clubhouse is Son Hojoon, Gwangju FC's manager; the guy frequently manhandling Yunho in many of the fan-taken practice photos Changmin's accidentally saved to his laptop.

 

"Who are you," Hojoon asks politely.

 

Instantly annoyed, Changmin flashes his hand, covered in Yunho's ink ramble, baring it like a brand.

 

Hojoon stares.

 

"No thanks," he says after a beat and turns to leave, letting the door whack Changmin in the face.

 

Incensed, Changmin slips inside because _no fucking thank you_ should be _his_ line. "Let me talk to him."

 

Hojoon sighs, resigned, and leads him to the locker room.

 

The locker room, where Yunho is straddling a narrow bench, jersey on, shorts off, hair pulled back in a loose sweaty ponytail, calves caked in grass and dirt stains, palms roughly digging into his thighs.

 

Changmin has seen a lot, just a lot of patients at the sports clinic and they've all been walking meatsacks and caused no unethical response.

 

Yunho is causing an unethical response.

 

"It's 7," Changmin says stupidly.

 

Yunho looks up, confused.

 

His eyes soften a little in recognition, but then his eyebrows draw together and his mouth turns down and Changmin knows that Yunho knows.

 

"Well," Yunho says slowly, reservedly, and darts a glance at Hojoon's crossed arms and then Changmin's left hand.

 

Changmin shouldn't recognize any of the things flashing across Yunho's face, but he does, and it's bullshit, grade-a bullshit because _Changmin_ came down here to reject _Yunho_ with dignity and care and consideration.

 

Not the other way around.

 

"Doctor-ssi," Yunho says cautiously, a strange polite smile thinning his lips, "I'm sorry. I think there's been a mistake."

 

 

*

 

"He's pining," Minho comments, observing from his seat.

 

"Yeah," Kyu agrees, next to him, "that's my official diagnosis, too."

 

"I don't know what to prescribe for rejection," Minho worries, flipping through a medical dictionary. "I mean, he just shut you down _so_ hardcore..."

 

Listless, Changmin ignores them, hunched over the cafeteria table, shoulders slumped.

 

"It would've been perfect," Minho mourns, tone aiming for encouraging, "you work at a sports clinic, he... gets hurt a lot..." He pauses, nudging Kyu's shoulder.

 

"Yeah," Kyu shrugs, helpless, "I got nothing, sorry."

 

Changmin shuffles off.

 

*

 

 

 

Around five in the morning, he rolls over, groggy, and shuts off his alarm.

 

There's a sleepy anxious moment of _what the fuck_ panic and then his vision clears.

 

Under his metacarpal, there's a small hideous drawing.

 

Grossed out, he reaches for his nightstand and picks up a pen and writes, _what kind of disease sample is that_.

 

A moment later, there's a tiny faint, _it's a strawberry..._

 

It is most undeniably not a fucking strawberry, Changmin thinks, but a fading _i like strawberries_ gives him pause.

 

He flops back into bed, hungry, pen working.

 

_i like everything_

 

*

 

 

Two months later, Changmin practically stabs at his skin, ink smearing maniacally as he writes, _hyung_ _i watched the game put ice on it RIGHT FUCKING NOW then don't fucking walk on it for a day_ —

 

"That's a cute manifesto you've got going," Kyu admits with an insincere nod, waving a chart in Changmin's feverish face, "but you have actual patients waiting."

 

Distracted, Changmin angles his pen to continue.

 

Kyu confiscates it with a huff and rolls Changmin's sleeve down.

 

"No," Changmin whines, grabbing at air, resolute, "let me just add one more thing because he'll ice his damn ankle forever and fucking get frostbite—"

 

Kyu drags him away by the collar.

 

 

*

 

It's Yunho's idea.

 

A charity match between Gwangju FC and the clinic; proceeds to benefit some church orphanage or whatever.

 

Changmin is trash at soccer unless it involves pixels and a couple of cheat codes, and the fact that the indoor stadium is sold-out and brimming with nurses and fans swooning over Yunho is making Changmin cranky and mildly homicidal.

 

"Wow," one of the nurses behind his dugout says, making heart eyes at Yunho's distant silhouette, "you couldn't _build_ a more perfect guy."

 

Changmin frowns.

 

Instead of casual competitive envy that the women are fawning over someone else when _Changmin_ is around, there's only a smug kind of pleased pride, followed quickly by a weird undeserved sense of accomplishment, and replaced by eventual panic because what the fuck.

 

"Ready?" Yunho waves from across the field, grinning, happy, hyper.

 

Changmin's for sure not ready.

 

*

 

During halftime, when everyone's busy group-huddling and groping each other to foster brotherhood or solidarity or some bullshit, Changmin is dying.

 

His everything is wet and sweaty and his hair is in his eyes and there's artificial grass dirtying his precious calves, so he practically rips his shirt off and wipes himself down, seeking relief.

 

From that stupid group-huddle, Yunho's head pops up, like a puppy hearing a bag of food rip open.

 

Inadvertently, Changmin meets his eyes.

 

Yunho's gaze—unreadable—falls to Changmin's hipbones, lips parting.

 

Changmin's shorts tighten.

 

"That," Yunho says, because of course he does, and the next thing Changmin knows, Yunho is disengaging from his flock and his giant palm is slapping at Changmin's abs, warm fingers grazing the twitching muscles, "must have taken a lot of hard work, Changminnie."

 

Provoked, Changmin smacks him back, right below the navel, on reflex.

 

Playfully, Yunho strikes out to pat Changmin's shorts.

 

With a persistent predatory grin, Changmin rolls his hips to the side, ducking the advance, jaw clenched, hands somehow compulsively aiming for Yunho's crotch.

 

"So hey," someone says, somewhere from the forgotten group-huddle, "halftime's over."

 

 

 

*

 

 

_i've been thinking_ , Yunho writes, _your handwriting is too nice for a doctor_

 

_yes_ , Changmin writes back with an amused grin, _meanwhile yours would be perfect. maybe we should switch careers_

 

It takes half an hour for Yunho to reply.

 

_maybe we should since your body's perfect for mine_

 

There's a rushed correction of: _my career not my body!!_ loading across Changmin's arm but it's too late, damage done, visual acquired.

 

It's not unpleasant.

 

White-hot heat pooling everywhere, Changmin scrubs at his hand over and over, catching unsettling glimpses of himself in the mirror, because god, no, it's not an unpleasant visual at all.

 

 

*

 

 

"What's this," one of his sisters asks during a monthly family dinner, poking her chopsticks at Changmin's wrist.

 

"Well, it looks like a nightmare," Changmin explains, stupidly fond, "so it's probably a panda he saw at the zoo."

 

"...he..." his other sister grins, surreptitiously snapping a photo.

 

"She," Changmin corrects belatedly, then shrugs. "Whatever."

 

 

 

*

 

 

During cold neverending night shifts, Changmin gets dumb and sleepy and confesses unnecessary shit like: _hyung, i thought you were a preschooler dropping acid_

 

_fair enough_ , Yunho replies at dawn, _i thought you were a serial killer_

 

The words are accompanied by a terrible, just awful, unforgivably crude cartoon of what Changmin suspects must be a hat and gloves.

 

_it means stay warm, changminnie_

 

Changmin already is.

 

*

 

 

 

One day, there's nothing.

 

No rambling good morning notes, no traumatizing art, no accidental oversharing, no Yunho.

 

Four days of radio silence and spotless neglected skin and Changmin's essentially ready to call Gwangju area hospitals to check for fatalities but then, during rounds, in between a ballerino with tendonitis and a toothless hockey player, there's a curt, _this is yunho's manager. please abstain from contacting him tonight. he has a date_

 

A violent rush of weird pure possessiveness courses through Changmin because how dare anyone else write on Yunho, and then the words actually register.

 

Yunho has a date.

 

Petty, Changmin reaches for a permanent marker and writes,

 

_so do i_

 

*

 

 

He goes out with one of Kyu's many volleyball players and during her fourth, "Look, are you _sure_ there's no generic version of my medication," he excuses himself to go brood in the bathroom.

 

He's halfway through dramatically splashing his face with water when he catches a shadow of something across his left hand.

 

_how's your date going_

 

Frantic, Changmin rummages for a pen, hands wet and slippery, ink smudging off in his haste.

 

_perfect. she's hot_

 

_good_ , Yunho writes, _changminnie should date a beautiful woman_

 

Irrationally furious, Changmin sends the pen flying into the trash can.

 

 

*

 

 

The universe, as previously established, is a colossal sadistic tormentor because not only has it saddled Changmin with something he doesn't really want, it's also decided he can't actually _have_ it.

 

"Gwangju FC is guesting tonight," Minho tries, helpful, chart clutched to his chest.

 

Bleary-eyed, Changmin looks up. "So."

 

"What happened to your whole," Kyu mimics, exasperated, "love is a meritocracy thing and how the person has to _earn_ it—"

 

Changmin almost opens his mouth to say Yunho did earn it, then stumbles under the weight of his realization.

 

Well fuck, he decides, if the universe was destructive enough to give him a glimpse of Yunho then it's gotta be smart enough to expect him to just _take_ Yunho.

 

"YOU HAVE PATIENTS," one of the nurses yells after him but Changmin's out the door like a graceless cheetah.

 

 

*

 

 

"You're a doctor," Hojoon greets, grudgingly letting him in, "how do you not understand what abstain means."

 

Changmin shoulders past him, feet locked en route to the locker room.

 

In the locker room, Yunho is surrounded by teammates in various states of undress—meatbags but meatbags fiercely hero-worshiping Yunho—so Changmin loses his composure and halts and says, "Hyung, it's 7."

 

Startled, Yunho turns around, flushed and sweaty and victorious, and Changmin knows he knows.

 

 

*

 

"It's good to see you," Yunho says after, smelling like shampoo and detergent, bathed in moonlight, sitting next to Changmin on a riverside bench, awkward.

 

He says it the way Changmin has said it to aunties and uncles he was fairly indifferent to.

 

He says it the way Changmin has said it to penpals in fourth grade.

 

"Hyung," he says, then wavers, unsure, vulnerable, "Yunho. Yunho, we're not penpals. We're soulmates."

 

It's the most embarrassing thing Changmin has said in his entire fucking life.

 

For Yunho, he'd say it again.

 

Yunho tenses.

 

"So, hyung," Changmin laces his fingers over his knees, staring at the river, firm, "you can't date."

 

There's a pause and then Yunho murmurs, "Neither can you."

 

Changmin's heart skips a painful beat, a complicated mess of emotions intensifying inside him.

 

So to alleviate it, he shoves a hand between Yunho's legs, palming a warm thick thigh because he's wanted this warm thick thigh for half a year and the universe is finally kind of delivering.

 

"Unethical," Yunho grins, too beautiful.

 

"Technically," Changmin grins back, shaky, "you're Kyu's patient, not mine."

 

"Oh," Yunho says, covering Changmin's hand, "in that case."

 

The bench below them does not survive the night.

 

*

 

 

 

"The universe," Changmin sermonizes during group physical therapy, many blank faces staring up at him, stupid grin on his face, terrible tattoos peppering both forearms like full prison sleeves, "will always find ways to incentivize you."

 

"...is this a cult," one of the patients asks Minho, tugging on his coat.

 

Minho glances down at her, full of pity.

 

"It is now."


End file.
